


silver moon's sparkling, so kiss me

by chaosy



Series: texts from last night [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Dates, Fluff, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2158989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosy/pseuds/chaosy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(416): he bought me dinner. he gave me his jacket when it was cold. and ate me out in the passenger seat of his car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	silver moon's sparkling, so kiss me

**Author's Note:**

> f i n a l l y did i update this, so sorry for the wait! you don't have to read "as close to you as i can get" to read this, but you might as well  
> say hello at martinisms.tumblr.com :)

Stiles has taken back everything negative he's said about parents' night. Sucking someone's hot uncle off against one of the desks can do that to a guy.

He feels guilty, of course, and Scott has his judge-y eyebrows on when he tells him. Scott's an open minded guy but Stiles gets that it can be difficult to accept that your best friend gives head to guys he's just met in a first grade classroom whilst he's planning his wedding to the girl he met at sixteen.

“You're panicking,” Scott says, sprawled on Stiles's bed as he rummages through his closet. He's dithering between the black shirt and jeans and the sweater and slacks.

“Not panicking,” he says, and throws a pair of socks at him. Scott huffs, catches them one-handed. Fucking Alphas and their magical strength. “I'm evaluating the possible outcomes of the date.”

“You're panicking,” Scott repeats. Stiles sighs.

“I'm panicking.”

Scott pulls himself up, pats Stiles on the shoulder and takes the clothes out of his hands. “The dude liked you enough to come back to an elementary school to make out with you. And you said he's a nice dude. You'll be okay,” he assures him, warmly.

Stiles just waves his hands around vaguely. “We didn't really talk about a lot. Mostly it was su--”

“Yep, I'm good, do not need to know,” Scott interrupts. Stiles gives him his best asshole grin. Scott punches his arm. “Here,” he says, and tosses the clothes on the bed, pulling out a heather-grey shirt, a sweater and some of the rare decent jeans that Stiles owns. “You'll look nice in these,” he insists.

Stiles puts a hand over his heart. “Shall I wear them to your wedding, Scotty?” he asks, simpering. Scott rolls his eyes.

“You know damn well that we're both getting tuxes. Bow tie and all. We're gonna match,” he tells him, perfectly serious as Stiles drags himself into the clothes. He feels like he looks a little like a nerdy teacher with the sweater over the shirt, but Scott insists that he looks very beautiful, and he _is_ a nerdy teacher, so quit worrying, okay?

Scott is the best friend ever.

“Punch me in the face,” Stiles says, when the doorbell rings. Scott snorts and heads down to greet Derek himself so Stiles can do his thing where he worries in his room for two minutes and Scott gets to behave like his dad.

The sight he's greeted to when he finally gets downstairs is a weird one. Scott and Derek are getting along swimmingly. Derek's quizzing Scott on the McCall pack and Scott is quizzing Derek on the Hale pack and they're so deep in conversation that even with werewolf senses, they don't hear Stiles until he trips over the bottom stair and crashes into a lamp.

“She's beauty, she's grace, she's Miss United States,” Scott sings, as he dusts himself off. Stiles gives him the finger and Derek goes over to him, smiling awkwardly. He looks ridiculously hot. He's in nice jeans with a coal-black shirt that doesn't leave a lot to the imagination. And he's still kept the leather jacket. Stiles can't decide if he wants it on or off by the end of the evening.

“Hi,” he says. Derek's smile gets brighter.

“Hi,” he replies. Stiles gets a little lost in their shared smiles, just looking at him for a little while until Scott coughs.

“Don't you guys have dinner reservations?” he asks.

Stiles sighs, heads out the door and gives him a wave. “Don't get pizza crumbs on the carpet,” he yells, just as he shuts the door, and Derek is laughing when he turns to him.

“You guys are like a married couple,” Derek tells him. Stiles flushes.

“Nah, dude, we're just-- we've been buddies since before I can remember. Went to college together. I'm gonna be his best man at the wedding.”

“You mean he has a childhood sweetheart and it's not you?” Derek teases, elbowing him in the side as they walk down the road. Stiles shakes his head. Scott is hot, he can see that, and Stiles is extremely easy, but that would be like getting it on with his brother. Weird. Extremely weird.

He slips his fingers into Derek's hand as they walk. Derek squeezes gently. Stiles squeezes back. “Not me. Scott isn't my type,” he says.

“Good,” is all Derek replies, and when Stiles looks at him he has a soft grin on his face.

It's so cute that he just can't resist moving in, stopping Derek on the street under a lampshade and dragging him bodily against Stiles to kiss him. He hasn't seen him since parents' night and even though they've been texting, Stiles misses him, okay? Even though it's weird to miss a hookup. Derek's nice, and he gives good kisses.

As he's demonstrating right now. His mouth is soft, warm and wet, and if Stiles knew Scott wasn't currently veging out on his couch watching  _Real Housewives of Orange County_ then he'd totally say screw dinner, take Derek back home and screw  _him_ instead.

“Nice to see you again,” Derek mumbles against his mouth.

Stiles smiles. “Nice to see you too.”

–

Derek's car is the sexiest thing Stiles has ever seen. Except for, perhaps, Derek. But shit, all those sleek lines and the black metal and--

“You have a sex car,” Stiles tells him.

Derek looks at him like he's managed to turn his left arm into a teapot. “I have a what now?”

“A sex car,” Stiles repeats. “A car that must see sex. A car that _is_ sex. Your car is the vehicular embodiment of porn.

Derek blinks at him. “Thank you,” he says, unlocks it and slips inside. “You're not going to try and stick your dick in the exhaust pipe, are you?”

Stiles's eyes widen as he takes his seat and he stares at Derek in horror. “ _No_ ,” he says, scandalised, but then he brightens. “So you've seen that youtube video too!”

Derek huffs. The grumbly look is a good look on him.  _Every_ look is a good look on him. “Cora sent it to me,” he mutters as he drives. “Whilst I was working. And didn't know how high my volume was.”

Stiles can't help it. He laughs his ass off, slapping the dashboard as his shoulders shake. “Oh my god,” he says unsteadily. “Oh my god, Derek, that mental image of your  _face_ . Oh my god,” he repeats. Derek rolls his eyes but Stiles can see the faint strains of a smile at his mouth and he thinks yeah, okay, he doesn't have to be completely embarrassing the whole night. Derek seems to like it.

They pull up at an Italian bistro that's perfect first-date stuff. Italian is safe. Everyone likes some kind of pasta or pizza. There's no spicy food or strange sauces, it all tastes pretty good, plus  _garlic bread_ .

He's not quite aware that he's mumbling all of this to himself until Derek snorts. “Are you going to psychoanalyse our date?” he asks him. Stiles goes faintly pink.

“Maybe. Are you wearing dark clothes so you can blend into the shadows so predators won't see you coming?” he says.

Derek gives him a grin that's downright dirty, glances around to make sure they're alone on the road and flashes his eyes a clear, brilliant blue at Stiles. “I'm the predator,” he says, and their faces are so close.

Stiles can't help it that he shivers a little.

“You are frustratingly hot,” he tells Derek, who laughs and goes adorably pink when they get out of the car. They hold hands whilst they wait to be seated and Derek touches their feet together underneath the table.

They decide on splitting a pizza. As much as Stiles would like to order spaghetti and go for a Lady and the Tramp moment, the pizza here is the fucking bomb and Derek has really good taste. He even likes capers. Stiles doesn't know anyone else who shares his love for those little green guys.

“It's kind of weird,” he says to Derek.

“What is?”

Stiles scratches the back of his neck and lowers his voice a little. “Well, like. I've had sex with you. And I've met your sister and her kid. And we're on a date now. But, like. I don't know how old you are. Or what you're favourite colour is.”

It's perhaps not exactly smooth to bring up just how much they don't know each other on their first date. Derek, however, seems to take it in his stride. He smiles at Stiles and nods.

“It's a fair point,” he ruminates, taking his hand across the table, playing with his fingers. Stiles sweeps his thumb over his pulse point and smiles at the shiver he gets in return. “I'm twenty seven. My favourite colour is gold. I went to Harvard to do law, but I hated it, so I did history instead. That's what my doctorate is in. I spent a year in Ghana after I graduated to help build a water treatment facility. Now I'm a restoration consultant; I advise people on how their old buildings would've looked when they fix them up. Retain as much of the old building as possible.”

Stiles is staring at him the entire time he talks with a slightly open-mouthed expression, something swooping in the pit of his stomach because Derek is  _perfect_ .

“Are you a serial killer?” he asks.

Derek looks taken aback but he's learning fast that Stiles says the weirdest shit and has a fondness for non-sequiturs. “No,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Stiles presses. “Like, you're a _Harvard_ graduate. You did charity work. You like old buildings. You have really nice hair and a sex car. There has to be _something_ wrong with you. Do you blow stuff up in your free time? Is taxidermy one of your hobbies?” he asks, completely seriously.

“Actually, it is,” Derek says. Stiles blinks at him. “I started when I was a kid, you know, but I was kind of shitty then. I took a few online courses and I've got this really neat collection. It's mostly squirrels, badgers, stuff I find in the woods, but I do have this real beauty of a tabby cat. She's my pride and joy.”

It takes eleven seconds of silence before Stiles realises Derek is shitting him and he laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his water.

Derek isn't much better, he's practically shaking, his hands over his face and god, his laughter is the sweetest. Stiles feels something in his chest go bright and warm and thinks  _oh no_ .

“Okay, okay,” Derek says, once they've calmed down. “Come on. Your turn. I spilled my guts for you--”

“Like the animals you taxidermied!” Stiles interrupts, hysterically, and they both start laughing again.

When they're finally breathing normally again and people are shooting them funny looks, Stiles looks up.

“I didn't go to Harvard. I went to CalArts, actually. It was close to my dad and, you know, I wanted to check up on him,” he explains. Derek nods, his face earnest and interested and he takes both of Stiles's hands as he listens. “I did a lot of graphic novel work. I read a lot of comic books and, I don't know, I wanted to be Mike Mignola or something.”

“Hellboy In Hell fucked me up,” Derek agrees, and Stiles practically swoons.

“You need to stop. With all of this,” he says, gesturing to Derek's everything and laughing as Derek blushes. “I'm gonna jump you in the middle of the restaurant.”

Derek shrugs, gives him a sly grin. “I'd be okay with that,” he murmurs, smirks, and Stiles feels heat flare in the pit of his stomach. He's about to reply when Derek squeezes his hands. “Come on. Tell me some more. How did you end up teaching first grade?”

Stiles tilts his head to the side. “I don't know, I mean. I'm twenty four. I needed a job, so I got my teaching diploma and, you know, in college my stories were always about kids. I get along with kids. And the art comes in handy, because they all wanna be superheroes. I remember doing a day where everyone dressed up as themselves in their superhero costume.”

Derek nods and smiles. “I remember that. Cora was going insane, making Cathy this costume. I don't think I've ever seen so much glitter,” he says with a soft, fond smile.

“Oh shit,” Stiles says. “ _I_ remember that. I remember that I was kind of jealous of her costume myself.” It had been awesome. There was a lot of pink and she had a crown and a mask and a tutu and little wellies, studded with rhinestones. Stiles had been impressed.

Their conversation drifts from Cathy to Derek's family to Stiles's pack to food to cell phones to art to movies to comic books and by the time Derek insists on picking up the bill, Stiles can see why Scott wanted to propose when he was just a junior in high school.

It's not that Derek is perfect, it's that Derek is  _perfect_ . He's clearly incredibly smart but he's not snobby about it, is a little quiet but can chatter with the best of them when you get him talking about the historical inaccuracies in  _Downton Abbey_ and he's kind and sweet and funny and is happy to banter with Stiles and he's so fucking hot that he's a walking, talking sauna.

They hold hands as they walk back to the car. The temperature has dropped sharply from cool spring evening to frosty pits of hell. Stiles has his sweater and his shirt, but that's it, and he's shivering.

“Here,” he hears Derek say, and suddenly he's engulfed in warm leather that smells like nice cologne. Derek smiles at him and slips his arm around Stiles's shoulders.

“Werewolves run pretty hot,” he explains when Stiles looks like he's going to protest.

“I'll say,” Stiles mutters, looking Derek up and down.

He leans against Derek as they head back to the car, occasionally sharing a kiss because Stiles is a total sap and Derek is too. They sit in the car for a moment and Derek drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “I don't wanna take you home,” he admits softly.

Stiles arches an eyebrow. “I knew you were a serial killer.”

He gets a flick on the ear for his trouble but they're both laughing. “I don't want you to either. I had a really good time tonight,” he murmurs, leans over to kiss Derek again. It's warm and wet and sweet. Derek slides a hand into his hair, strokes it until Stiles relaxes against it. It's a little bit of a shock when Derek's fingers knot into the strands, pulling lightly but enough to drag Stiles deeper into the kiss.

Stiles is mildly ashamed of how he whines but Derek seems to find it hot, so he doesn't overthink it.

The kiss turns abruptly dirtier; Derek's tongue slides messily against his teeth and Stiles brings up a hand to cup his face. He bites down on Derek's lip and grins at the hiss he gets in response.

“Not here,” Derek mumbles, his mouth smearing against Stiles's cheek and down his neck. “Not now,” he adds.

Stiles grumbles, pushes into the hickeys that he knows he'll have tomorrow.  _Werewolves_ . “You're no fun,” he whispers to Derek, who laughs. They take their hands off of each other and Derek reluctantly starts up the car.

They drive in companionable silence, Stiles's hand pressed a little too high up on Derek's thigh for it to be considered simple affection. He rubs his fingers along the inseam and Derek draws in a shuddery breath through his nose. Stiles lets his hand climb a little higher, thumb just brushing the outline of his cock in those obscene jeans.

“Stiles.” Derek's voice is quiet, the word itself bit out and laden with heat. Stiles hums.

Derek has to nudge his hand away because he insists that he's going to crash if he doesn't stop. After a couple of minutes, Stiles realises that he doesn't recognise this part of town.

“You know, as nice as driving with you is, this isn't helping the serial killer image,” he says, as Derek pulls onto a narrow road.

Derek snorts. “Relax,” he murmurs, takes one hand off the wheel to squeeze Stiles's. “If I wanted to kill you I wouldn't have bought you dinner first.”

“Yeah, not helping.”

They pull up in a car park in the woods, just outside some nature trail or something. The place is deserted, dark and spooky. Even though Derek is far too adorable to be a mass murderer, Stiles can't help but think that this is really, insanely creepy of him.

Derek unbuckles his seatbelt, laughs at Stiles's expression and leans over to kiss him again. Stiles melts into it despite his jurisdictions. There's a soft click as Derek undoes his seatbelt, and suddenly the guy is in Stiles's lap.

This is so, so much better than anything else. The Camaro is not a car that was designed for sex, despite how sex _y_ it is. But the cramped space pushes Derek up against him and Stiles can slip his hands up under his shirt as they kiss, which is a total plus.

Derek's mouth is hot, his teeth scraping lightly over Stiles's lip as he presses him back into the seat. Stiles breathes out shakily as he works a knee between Derek's thighs, letting him ride down against it and  _fuck_ , Stiles can feel the hot press of his cock through his jeans. His hips jerk up against it automatically and Derek groans.

“Fuck, Stiles,” he murmurs against his jaw, nips at the hinge of it before mouthing a wet line up over his Adam's apple. Stiles moans a little helplessly. “You smell so fucking good.”

He can't even work up the sarcasm to tell Derek his aftershave brand. That's how turned on he is. He can't even utilise  _sarcasm_ . Derek is damn good.

He isn't actually aware that he's flipped open Derek's belt buckle and unzipped his jeans until he gets a hand around his cock. The memories he's got of this are a little faded and this is so,  _so_ good. The breath sounds like it's been punched out of Derek and he fucks himself into the curve of Stiles's hand for a while, biting at his ear, murmuring the dirtiest shit into it and Stiles is blushing, so turned on that it's actually hard to breathe.

Derek eventually pushes his hand away. “Wait, what are you--” Stiles mutters, because he's pushing the seat back until Stiles is looking at the roof of the car. Derek shoves the seat until he can fold his legs into the space beneath the glove compartment and leans forward, dragging Stiles's zipper down and mouthing at his cock through his boxers and  _Christ_ it's hot. Derek's hot breath teases over his dick through the fabric and Stiles whines, squirms a little.

“Be patient,” Derek mutters. He bites at his hip and drags his jeans down with his underwear. Stiles feels a little guilty, because Derek looks supremely uncomfortable and yet he's the hottest thing Stiles has seen all year.

It takes some work, but eventually his legs are over Derek's shoulders and Derek is sucking on the head of his cock and Stiles is going fucking crazy. He whines, rocking his hips up, whispers “please,  _please_ ” because Derek is being a fucking tease, swirling his tongue and pulling off every now and then to suck bruises into Stiles's thighs.

The stubble burn is going to be on legendary levels in the morning.

He feels a warm, wet tongue trace over his balls and gasps, twitches because he's so fucking sensitive, and Derek tips his hips up further so he can lick over his perineum. Stiles moans the loudest when he presses a wet, fucking nasty kiss to his hole, his fingers digging hard into the leather as he tips his head back.

“Fuck,” he gasps, and Derek hums. He has no idea what he's saying but the vibrations of his mouth against his hole feel fucking incredible so Stiles, breathily, asks him to do it again.

He's got the feeling that Derek has no idea what he's supposed to do again but that's okay, because he's licking his tongue over his hole in hot, wet, messy swipes, his fingers digging hard into Stiles's thighs and Stiles is literally going insane, it's so hot.

He rocks his hips down, rutting gently against Derek's face, making this stupidly high-pitched noise when Derek gets a hand around his cock and Christ, Stiles is going to die. He's going to die right here because Derek Hale is working the very tip of his tongue inside of him, being so careful and so teasing it's too much and not enough at the same time. 

Derek's hands slide up to his ass, grab his cheeks and pull them apart a little. Stiles feels so exposed,  _open_ to him and gasps up at the roof of the Camaro, one hand doing a Kate Winslet and pressing against the condensation on the window.

“I'm gonna come,” he gasps out to him after what feels like a century of this sweet fucking agony. Derek bites him on the thigh and Stiles nearly cries when he feels the pressure of his finger slipping inside, later joined by his tongue.

He can't come without someone touching him but Derek has that covered. He squeezes Stiles's cock, jerks him off a few times in a tight, hot grip and Stiles gasps as he comes all over Derek's fingers. His toes curl and he pants quietly as Derek strokes him through it, nudging him gently when it's too much, when he's too sensitive. Derek crawls up awkwardly, manages to get open the glove compartment so he can wipe off his hand.

“C'mere,” Stiles mumbles, completely spent, his hand groping clumsily at Derek through his jeans. Derek laughs quietly and kisses his neck, undoes his jeans for him. Holy shit, he's hard. Really hard. Flushed and leaking and making a mess of his boxers. Stiles wants to get his mouth on him but he can't really move.

He manages to jerk Derek off like that until Derek is gasping and shuddering and biting his neck hard enough to bruise. Stiles pulls him into a kiss, swallows up all the noises he makes greedily.

“Jesus,” Derek says tiredly, as Stiles cleans up his hand with the tissues. He opens the window and tosses them out. Stiles smacks him on the side.

“This is a _nature trail_ ,” he tells him indignantly.

Derek just grunts. “Tissues are biodegradeable. I don't care,” he mutters, doesn't even help them get tidy before he's slumping on top of Stiles.

He's heavy, but it's cute. Stiles is a tactile guy and Derek is a werewolf so the cuddling is nice. He kisses his cheek softly and breathes him in, listens to the whisper of the woods outside of the car.

“You feel okay?” he asks softly. Derek nods against his neck.

“Mm. You?”

“Perfect.”

He can feel Derek's smile and he squeezes him gently. “Come over sometime,” he mumbles. “You know. When Scott isn't there. We can have an evening in, have sex in an actual bed. How about that, huh? An actual  _bed_ instead of a first grader's desk or your car.”

“I thought you said I had a sex car?” Derek teases him.

Stiles shrugs. “Your car is sexy but was not built for sex, judging by the cramp you'd get in your leg if you were human,” he explains. Derek nods absently, kisses him some more.

Stiles figures that they can wait a while until the park rangers find them.

 


End file.
